


Daft Punk Is Playing at My House

by barricadeur



Series: Sink to the Bottom [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen, M/M, band au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:52:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadeur/pseuds/barricadeur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it feels like there are only three hundred young people in New York. [The ABCs play a house party.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daft Punk Is Playing at My House

Sometimes it feels like there are only three hundred young people in New York. The biggest city in the country, the capital of the world, and yet Enjolras sees the same people at parties, runs into the same acquaintances on the train. Meet an interesting stranger, talk to them for ten minutes, and all of a sudden you've met your elementary school crush's brother's neighbor. Sometimes it's comforting, a big fuck-you to everyone who thinks that New York is a faceless, anonymous sea. Other times, Enjolras gets the feeling that he's living in a low-budget TV movie, where they dress the extras up in different outfits and reuse them in every scene. 

If there really are only three hundred young people living in the city, then Courfeyrac must know them all. In all the time they've been friends, Enjolras can't remember a time when Courfeyrac paid for his own drinks – there's always an old friend at the bar, a former bandmate or a future lover who's more than willing to pick up the tab.

"It's my superpower," Courfeyrac says once, when Marius grumbles about how much less broke he'd be if he always drank for free. "I'm The Nicest Man On Earth."

"Last week you told me it looked like a bird had built a nest in my hair and then flew away because it was embarrassed to be seen with me."

"The Nicest, Most Honest Man On Earth," Courfeyrac amends, and knocks back his shot with a nod to the man at the end of the bar who bought it for him. "And we've talked about what yellow does to your complexion too many times." Later that night, though, after Marius is too drunk to notice, he pays Marius's bar tab for him.

It's thanks to Courfeyrac's networking that The ABCs get most of their early gigs. They win a regular spot at the Musain based on their first show (and based on the years of goodwill Combeferre has racked up by being the most reliable bartender in all of North Brooklyn), but it's not enough; they're destined to be more than just some bar band that people half-listen to while getting wasted. They're going to change the world. Enjolras is sure of it. But to change the world they'll need exposure – and to get exposure, they need to perform live.

So that's what they do – two, three times a week sometimes: art galleries, beer gardens, illegal warehouse parties…wherever Courfeyrac's got an in. One time they play on the roof of a building overlooking the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, close enough that the car exhaust catches in Enjolras's throat and he ends up channeling Tom Waits for the night. Another time, it's a sports bar in Sunnyside as the opening act for a pair of honest-to-god go-go dancers wearing NFL ref uniforms.

"What if I started dressing like that for our shows?" Grantaire says to no one in particular. He'd taken it upon himself to consume both pitchers of their comped beer, and his voice is loose, languid. They're all packed into the van, driving it back to the practice space. Combeferre's at the wheel, with Enjolras giving directions beside him. When he glances in the rearview mirror, he sees Grantaire spread across the entire second row, his head in Courfeyrac's lap.

"I don't think that's the type of aesthetic we want to present," Combeferre says, so Enjolras doesn't have to. He clicks on his blinker, and they turn onto the bridge.

"It'd be subversive – inverting the male gaze, and all that shit. Revolutionary booty pops." He tries to give a little shimmy, and ends up almost kicking out a window.

And Enjolras is so fucking tired – a full day at the bookstore, and then straight to the practice space to help pack the van, with a handful of bar peanuts (along with the colonies of bacteria they harbored) his only sustenance. Too tired for Grantaire's bullshit and his constant low-level derision. 

"Who'd want to see that?" he says, and he's aware that the words comes out harsher than he meant them. Combeferre shoots him a warning glance.

Grantaire meets his gaze in the rearview mirror. His eyes are clear despite the drink, and they hold Enjolras for a long moment. No one else says anything, and Enjolras spares a guilty thought for starting a fight when the others are trapped in here with them.

But Grantaire doesn't take the bait. "Baby," he says slowly, "I've got moves like you've never seen."

Enjolras can't look away. He thinks he sees the beginning of a smile build in Grantaire's eyes, but before it has a chance to spread to his mouth, Marius has wolf-whistled from his spot in the back row, and Courfeyrac is saying something about g-strings on asses and on guitars, and the moment's passed.

The next show, Courfeyrac introduces them as "America's Booty-popping Crusaders," and Grantaire laughs so hard he almost misses his cue. For the first time ever, Enjolras doesn't yell at him about it after the show.

–-

Their first properly paid gig is a birthday party for one of Courfeyrac's friends. Only seventy-five bucks (not even enough to pay for a tank of gas for the van), but it's a start, and "he lives in this artist commune in Bushwick, so there's definitely gonna be like a ton of people there, I promise – it's gonna be crazy," Courfeyrac promises as they pack up the van. "Definitely a lot of exposure for the band."

"Can I get drunk on exposure?" Grantaire grumbles, but he loads amps with the rest of them. 

"If anyone can figure out how to do that, it's you," Combeferre says.

"Reach for the stars!" Marius cheers, popping jazz hands. 

Grantaire flips the bird in their general direction.

The party's not far from their practice space, but it's a Friday evening in early summer and the streets are packed: livery cabs trawling for fares into Manhattan; weekend travelers foregoing the highways to take a "short cut" off the island; kids playing stick ball in the street who only begrudgingly scatter when Enjolras honks. It rained in the afternoon, and a sheen of water hangs around the sidewalk, puddling along the curbs, but the sun's last rays burn away the clouds before it disappears below a row of buildings in the west. They find parking two blocks away from the address, across from a storefront evangelical church. 

Courfeyrac guides the way to a big gray-and-blue Victorian, neatly painted and topped with a steeple. Out of place among the row houses on the block, it leans to the right a little, as if self-conscious. The bay windows give off hemispheres of light, and music and laughter filter into the front yard.

"This is an artist commune?" Marius says. 

"This," Courfeyrac grins, hefting up the carrying case for his keyboard, "is Squirrel Manor." 

Their host, Jesse, meets them at the door, wearing a crooked party hat and several lipstick kisses on his cheeks. He and Courfeyrac exchange a greeting that falls somewhere between a hug and a grope, and then he turns to the rest of them. "Thank you guys so much for coming!" he says. His eyes are a little glazed. "Come on in, I'll show you where you can set up."

Inside, the house (mansion, really) opens into a large common room, where about twenty people are already milling around or sprawled out over faded couches. Cosette's here, chatting with Grantaire's roommate; Cosette waves to them, while the other girl just quirks an eyebrow in their general direction. Christmas lights strung up lend a festive air to the room, casting hued shadows over the black and white photographs on the walls, and there's a decent speaker system hooked up to an iPod in one corner playing a remix of an LCD Soundsystem song. 

The most noticeable feature of the room, though, is the fireplace at the far end, big and old, carved out of some dark wood. Someone's cleverly set up a folding table in the bricked-up firebox, to serve as the bar. On the mantle above stands a taxidermy scene: two squirrels, one standing on its hind legs with an acorn clasped between its forepaws, the other frozen mid-trot, tail upright like a flare. The standing squirrel is wearing a tiny top hat and an even tinier monocle.

"Squirrel Manor," Enjolras echoes.

Jesse laughs. "Exactly!" 

Behind him, Combeferre chokes back a laugh. 

Jesse leads them through the crowd, pausing to introduce them to at least half a dozen of his fellow residents. Enjolras only catches a couple: Andy, a graphic illustrator; Emiko, who stage manages for a marionette theatre company; Sam, who's either writing a computer program about novels, or a novel about computer programmers (the distinction was not made clear). They're all friendly, politely excited for the band to play – "I've never heard of you guys," Emiko says, and her tone makes it sound like a compliment rather than an insult – but Enjolras gets a sense that he's evaluated. He tries not to care.

The New York theorem, as he's come to think of it, holds. Courfeyrac is, as usual, the center of attention; everyone knows him, and more indeterminately sexualized greetings follow. It turns out that Emiko and Combeferre attended the same summer camp in Maine, and Enjolras hides his smile at the idea of a young Combeferre making lanyards or playing Capture the Flag. (And being excellent at both, knowing him.) Even Grantaire has connections: Enjolras watches him give a long look to a dissolute-looking fellow in a slim-cut three-piece suit, followed by a curt nod. The guy nods back, raising his beer in greeting.

Enjolras elbows Courfeyrac. "We need to set up," he says, brusquely.

Courfeyrac nods, and murmurs something to Jesse. "Oh, right!" Jesse says, as though he's just remembered why they're here. "Well, usually we hold shows in the basement, but last week we had a séance down there, and it's still kind of a mess – someone didn't follow the chore wheel."

A girl with green hair and a septum ring (Sophie, maybe?) rolls her eyes. "I wasn't even at the séance, asshole!"

"Hey, no besmirching the honor of the birthday boy!" Jesse calls back. "Anyway, is it cool if you guys play in here? We can move the couches out of the way, and there are more outlets in here anyway."

"That's fine," Enjolras says.

"Radical," Jesse beams.

They set up by the fireplace, moving the bar across the room. Enjolras goes to move the squirrels, too, but Grantaire's roommate is at his side before he can touch them. 

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," she says. "Very bad mojo."

"Excuse me?" Enjolras freezes. 

"Benicio and Elvis are the household deities. They protect Squirrel Manor." 

Enjolras stares at her. He can't tell if she's fucking with him – she lives with Grantaire, so probably, but he's never seen her so much as smile. He's still not sure what he did to make her dislike him; he doesn't even know her name. 

(He should probably know her name by now; maybe that's part of it.)

He tries to sound apologetic. "I'm sorry, I didn't know," 

"Clearly." Her features remain impassive.

Enjolras puts his hand back against his side, then clasps his hands together. Releases them. "Ah, which is which?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Only the barest inflection indicates that she's asked a question. 

Enjolras studies the taxidermy more closely. The one on all fours sports a coat of pink nail polish on its claws, and his standing companion seems to be missing a chunk of its tail. He's not sure whether any of that is a clue, but when he turns back, she's gone back to talk to Cosette again.

"So weird," he murmurs.

"What is?" Grantaire appears at his elbow, a bottle of Rolling Rock in one hand. It looks about a quarter empty, which means it's not his first.

Enjolras shakes his head. "Nothing," he says. 

Grantaire's roommate turns, and sees them standing together. Her eyes narrow; a chill courses down Enjolras's spine.

He swallows. "I don't think your roommate likes me very much."

"Eponine?" Grantaire snorts. "She likes you fine." 

Enjolras just looks at him.

"Okay," Grantaire admits, "maybe she's not your biggest fan."

"I don't get it," Enjolras says. "Did I do something to insult her? Should I apologize?"

"No, no," Grantaire says. "Nothing like that." He hesitates, takes a long pull of beer. "She just worries about me. She doesn't think it's such a great idea for me to spend so much time with – the band."

Enjolras blinks. "What else would you be doing?" he says, unthinking.

Grantaire laughs, but his eyes are shuttered, oddly solemn. "That's what I keep telling her," he says. 

"Grantaire – " Enjolras doesn't know what to say to that, but Grantaire just shakes his head, says, "I gotta finish setting up," and squeezes past him.

Enjolras watches him go. His guitar pulls against his neck; he slides two fingers under the strap, adjusts it over his shoulder. Grantaire doesn't look back at him, and after a moment, Enjolras turns away.

The crowd is bigger now, presses in on the little semicircle of space they've carved out. The sticky-sweet smell of weed permeates the room.

He goes over to Courfeyrac's setup where Marius and Combeferre are standing, and they all tune together. "Good crowd," he says, and has to lean to be heard over the noise.

"I told you it would be," Courfeyrac reminds him. "I know seventy-five's not much, but."

"It's great," Enjolras assures him. "It's a start."

"I talked to Jesse – he's gonna pass a basket after the set. Everyone's pretty drunk, and most of these people aren't as broke as they dress."

At the mention of drink, Enjolras glances back at Grantaire. He's dispensed with bottles, now, in favor of a red plastic cup of uncertain contents.

"Leave him be," says Courfeyrac, beside him. "It's a party."

"Speaking of which – " Combeferre gestures to the crowd. 

Enjolras nods. "Grantaire," he calls out. 

Grantaire looks up. 

Enjolras smiles. "It's showtime."

Grantaire smiles back – a real smile, this time – and extricates himself from behind his set. "You know, that doesn't sound nearly as badass as you think it does," he says, coming to stand beside them. 

Enjolras ignores him. It's not about being badass; those words (which, okay, are a little corny) ignite something inside him, the pilot light in his chest, behind his ribs where stage fright likes to hide. The excitement pushes out the nervousness, and leaves him feeling like he could do anything. 

They gather together, arms around one another. The crowd murmurs, unused to this much sincerity, but Enjolras finds it easy to disregard them when he knows how much they'll come to love them in just a few minute's time. He focuses on his band, on his boys. 

The night of their first show, Enjolras had composed a pep talk to give the band: sixteen index cards of motivational phrases, reminders of things they'd worked on in practice, and a stirring evocation of the revolutionary potential of music. It had been eloquent, funny, galvanizing – and completely ruined when Marius spilled beer all over the cards. 

He looks at his friends, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "Okay," he says, repeating his improvised words from that first show, and every one since, "let's try not to fuck this up. But if we do –" and they're all grinning now, Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Marius and Grantaire, nervous and manic and ecstatic all at the same time, and Enjolras knows in his heart that he was born to be here, with these people, doing this, "let's fuck the whole world up."

"Amen," says Combeferre.

And they do.

**Author's Note:**

> wow, it's been ages since i updated this fic! thanks to everyone who's stuck with it -- and if you're reading it for the first time, you can read the rest of the series so far under the "sink to the bottom" heading.
> 
> all of the venues in this story actually exist, although i've changed certain details and dialed up the absurdity. the title comes from [possibly the greatest party song of all time](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cj8JrQ9w5jY), by lcd soundsystem.
> 
> for fic snippets, plot bunnies, and general musings, find me on tumblr: [barricadeur.](http://barricadeur.tumblr.com/)
> 
> thanks to mere, ark, vee and emily for reading this as it came into being, and everyone on tumblr for cheering me on!


End file.
